The Day Before
by Beezer1
Summary: The day before Eponine meets Marius the day she dropped the letters. An expanded version of an old drabble. Chapter 4 edited per AmZ's comments. Don't know much about the hx of French money and am not inclined to research it. Minor adjustments made per
1. Morning

Even on the most sweltering days there is an icy wind that only the wholly unfortunate and the truly empathetic can feel. It exhales from the lungs of men as they whistle on the streets, ignoring the deprived as they plead for help. It gives a chill even in summer, but is insufferable in the winter.   
  
The beauty of privilege is that one can simply disregard suffering as if it were little more than a bothersome hum of voices in a café. The depraved and desperate are merely background noise to those who cannot be bothered to listen carefully.  
  
The horror of poverty is that one cannot hope to be heard. Like a nightmare, where the dreamer longs to scream for help but cannot find a voice, life passes by with raspy words going unheeded by the waking world. The poor cannot awaken and be restored of their tongues.  
  
A good day for the destitute is measured in negatives: how many passersby did not spit upon them, how much behavior was not seen by the police... The days are measured this way because to measure by positives would leave them nothing to measure at all.  
  
For one girl, it was almost a good day.  
  
The girl is young, but her face is lined. To look upon her is to witness years of hardship in a single moment. Misery is thrust upon the beholder in a defining burst. It is easier to look away.  
  
It was almost a good day because only one man spit on her, and he still decided to take her up on her proposition. Most ignored her, but several people tossed her coins. Eponine knew her father would be pleased. Maybe he would be so pleased he would not notice that she and her sister had lost his letters... Maybe he would be so pleased that tonight she would fall asleep of her own accord, rather than going unconscious at the delivery of a slap or a punch... Those were always the best days.  
  
..............................  
  
Like all her days, the good day began with a shiver. The broken window above what passed her for bed let in the bitter February air. Azelma, curled up in the corner and dominating their ragged blanket, did not stir as Eponine shuddered and sat up. She had slept only briefly and was reluctant to acknowledge the morning. Gazing about her she saw that her father was already busy writing letters and her mother was busy watching him do so. Theirs was not an equal partnership.   
  
Upon seeing his eldest daughter awake and alert, Thenardier exclaimed, "Well it looks like Sleeping Beauty has decided to wake up. Maybe now she'll get her lazy ass out of bed and earn her keep, the lousy slut."  
  
Eponine, either unaware of or impervious to her father's verbal barbs, trudged across the room to poke at the cold ashes in the fireplace.  
  
"We might have a fire if someone besides me bothered to lift a finger around here," grumbled Thenardier. "Oh my, the precious little princesses mustn't dirty their hands..."  
  
Eponine gazed at her hands. They were brown and coarse, with dry patches and deep lines. Her fingernails were bitten down and her cuticles were caked with dirt and scabby hangnails.   
  
"Princess my ass..." she muttered.  
  
She continued to poke listlessly at the ashes. Azelma, awakened by her father's rumblings, took up her usual position next to her mother and sat staring blankly ahead. Eponine looked at her and wondered if the girl ever really looked at her life or if she merely looked through it.  
  
While Eponine contemplated her sister Thenardier signed his last letter with flourish, and while doing so broke his pen.  
  
"That's right! Break my pen! You've broken everything else! Is that what I get for trying to earn an honest living! A broken pen and two good-for-nothing daughters?!" he cursed to the sky, to a God he didn't believe in.   
  
"Well no matter, at least these are written. Here. Take them, and don't go getting off track, either. You're carrying our livelihood- if you lose them I'll beat you raw, my darlings. You don't want to know how raw..."  
  
Eponine took the letters from him and gave him a bored look. "Papa, is there any threat you haven't already made?"  
  
Thenardier gave her a slap across the face, though not a terribly hard one. "You remember who does the work around here, little Mademoiselle."  
  
Eponine shrugged and headed out the door, leaving Azelma behind. And not caring much at that.  
  
In the street the familiarity of the worn out buildings and worn out people did nothing to comfort her. Her head throbbed from lack of rest, lack of food...an all around lack, really.   
  
Her gait was listless, making her look dazed, perhaps a little lost. She had no desire to do her father's bidding nor to seek out something better to do. She trod wearily on, but only because there was no place to sit but the ground and it was covered in dirty snow. She felt nervous. She racked her mind for a reason to feel so, but could think of none.   
  
"Becoming a lunatic as well," she thought. "I suppose it fits." 


	2. Afternoon

A/N- Ah, who am I kidding? To be perfectly honest the only reason I'm even touching this thing again is because I've had writers block for the last six months and I'm trying to force myself to form sentences again. I realize many of you will conclude that this latest installment, and indeed the whole project, is fairly boring and unoriginal. So be it.

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The noon church service killed over an hour and her mortal soul was none the wiser for all the cleansing it had experienced. She'd spent the time huddled in the last pew ignoring the proceedings but enjoying the heat and the smell of incense. The priest eyed her warily when she came up for Communion, but the little wafer was more than she'd had in days and she'd gladly burn in hell for the confessions she never made. In fact, a roaring fire would be quite welcome indeed. She gulped as much wine as she could manage before the minister wrenched the glass away. Alas, it was neither enough for dulled senses nor continued warmth. It was enough to earn a dubious glare from the good clergyman, however.

After mass she fingered the envelope addressed to the white-haired man with a pretty daughter. She followed them for a few paces contemplating its delivery and listening to the girl express her gratitude for being blessed with a warm woolen cloak on this day of days.

"Oh papa, God is so generous to have given me such warmth when others are so cold," she said earnestly.

"That is why we must share our blessings with others, my child," the man gently reminded her.

"I'd bless you with the business end of a crowbar if I had to listen to your pontificating every day, you pious little ninny," Eponine grumbled.

She watched them climb into a carriage, the girl's dainty boots stepping ever so lightly until they disappeared; the man's heavy steps causing the carriage to dip a bit as he climbed in. They drove away. The letter was still in her hand. She didn't care. Opportunity lost; she shoved into the stack with the others. "Pity they didn't turn around and share some of those effing blessings. Isn't that the rich? Keeping their eyes forward and their heads high and wondering why everyone's on about those pesky poor people that they never even see." She was overcome by jealousy and anger. "Easy to be charitable when you keep avoiding the people who need charity!"

In fact, had they seen her the girl would have offered Eponine the very cloak off her back and the man surely would have arranged for a hot meal. But, unaccustomed to honesty, charity and empathy as she was, Eponine took their ignorance for indifference and glared after their carriage with intense hatred.

With the carriage out of sight she was left to mill about the churchyard and try to formulate a plan for the rest of the afternoon. She had never managed to resign herself to idleness. In the years after the inn shut down her father had slipped with ease into a life of idle unemployment. Never one to glory in hard work, his current like of sloth and crime was a merely the logical progression of laziness and skillessness. But, she could still vaguely recall the hustle and bustle of another life. Warm memories seen through a golden haze as if recollection itself could yellow with age. The constant anticipation of company, as if every night were to be a grand party. She and her sister dressed in their best, travelers pinching their cheeks and slipping Napoleons to them in fits of drunken generosity. Kettles over leaping flames, bread so fresh it still melted butter, people coming and going, hours occupied with games and toys and, later, chores.

Eponine had taken to the chores better than Azelma. Perhaps it was because Eponine was older, could see their parents sinking. Tried to keep them afloat in her small way, by sweeping the steps. Perhaps it was simply because she was bigger and could finish most chores with speed and ease. Whatever the reason, her aptitude for busywork had lead to this- a lifetime of being someone's errand girl. Still, an errand girl has her uses and a living can be made. Meanwhile, Azelma had found her niche in a lifetime of being a prone mute. Her inability to grow and work like a proper person infuriated Eponine and left her torn between wanting to protect her and wanting to throttle her. She often thought the girl would be better off if her throat was slit in some back alley. She was just too weak and Eponine felt the risk of protecting her offered no real gain.

It may inconceivable to contemplate a sister that way, but poverty is such that all of life becomes a careful scale the weighs risk against reward. It is a level so low it is unimaginable to most, but like wild animals the poor may find more reward in eating their young than nurturing them.

Having thought of no plan, indeed having thought of nothing but her past, Eponine drifted from the churchyard to the shops some blocks away. She tried to arrange her tatters provocatively in hopes that some man would be in a spending mood.


	3. Dusk

_A/N- continuing to meander through this thing. I'm thinking it will end the moment Thenardier sends her over to deliver the letter to Marius. So fear not, brave readers, it's already dusk and there are only so many hours in the day._

Emerging back on the street she considered it only a minor success. She had not been taken indoors for the transaction and he certainly was rude, but the bit of money she'd negotiated was likely enough for some broth and bread and maybe even a bit of pastry. Gentleman that he was, he'd been kind enough to spit on the money before tossing it carelessly in her direction. Forced to her knees for the second time that afternoon (third if you counted church, though that had already faded from recollection) she crawled around to retrieve the pieces.

With moderately full pockets she emerged from the narrow alley and appraised the street scene before her. There was a sort of entrepreneurial bounce in her step. Though she was not explicitly proud of her side business, she found it infinitely preferable to begging. Calculating and innately business-like, Eponine felt no guilt over the operation and considered it a sight more respectable to offer a service in exchange for money than to simply ask for hand-outs. "Only does in a pinch anyway," she told herself. "Not as if I'm out there every night with the trash ripping off lousy pigs and rouging my cheeks."

A premature dusk was near at hand, such was the character of Paris is February. Eponine scarcely noticed the darker gray edging out the lighter one as she hung back observing the passers-by. She searched each face, though she couldn't say for what. "Plenty ripe for picking, but I've no need for that now," she thought as she fingered the coins in her pocket. Though she could have easily lifted a wallet or two and greatly improved her situation, she was not greedy. Poverty has a strange way of preserving certain virtues. It is not uncommon for the poor to beg, borrow, or steal only what they need to make it through the day.

Shaking off her reverie, she strode down the street in the direction of the bake shop. She'd taken only a few steps before she felt a tug at her skirt. Instinctively, she turned with a raised hand to confront whoever had done the tugging. With money on her she felt particularly vulnerable but equally brazen and ready to fight. No need, though. The tug came from Azelma.

"'Zelma, what in hell do you want?" she asked harshly. With her weakling sister tagging along Eponine knew the prospect of one hearty meal would be remote. Rather, two meager meals would have to suffice, with the bulk of hers going to her sister, who seemed inhumanly capable of storing endless amounts of food despite her body's stubborn refusal to grow or hold weight.

"I been looking all afternoon. Where'd you go?" Azelma asked pitifully. "It's cold. You took the only coat. Papa kicked me out and I been bloody freezing since."

Eponine sighed and tossed the coat at her sister. "Take it. What do I care? The sooner I freeze to death the sooner I'll be rid of the lot of you."

She turned and began to walk away. Azelma followed struggling with the too-long coat. At the corner Eponine paused and turned to look at her sister. It was a ridiculous sight, that tiny thing dwarfed further by that coat meant for a full-grown man. Eponine had to smirk and with reluctant goodwill she took hold the bottom hem and began to tear. When she was done the coat fell just at Azelma's ankles. The girl was cautious with her gratitude. "I'da done it myself later," she said by way of thanks.

"Well, I hope you're happy. It's only fit for you now, you useless runt."

Eponine shivered and turned to continue down the street. Azelma held back with her hands shoved deep in the coat pockets. "You coming?" Eponine asked without patience.

Azelma shook her head and took off down a side street. Alone again, and glad for it, Eponine suppressed any puzzlement at her sister's behavior and made her way the extra block or two to the bake shop. It was only as the warmly lit haven of bread and confections loomed before that she realized she'd left her money in the coat pocket. She cursed loudly, causing all the proper folk within earshot to gaze at her with shock and disgust.

"That bloody, stupid whore! I'll tear her arms off and beat her bleeding with them if she spends so much as a goddamn sou!"

She took off running, still cursing and grumbling. To most she looked wild and insane and if Azelma could see her she would have likely have been struck with a fear greater than even their father could instill in her.


	4. Evening

Azelma was pinned to the wall of the alley. Eponine held her there by her neck.

"Where's the money, Azelma?" she asked, low and threatening.

Tears streamed down the younger girl's face and she coughed feebly from Eponine's grip on her throat.

"Where?!"

Eponine released her and she fell to the ground in a heap. Coughing and gasping, Azelma handed her sister a few sous she dug out of her coat pocket. Eponine stared at the pittance in her hand.

"Where's the rest?" Her eyes were still alight with fury, but the otherworldly growl in her voice had lessened.

From the ground where she cowered Azelma said faintly, "I ate it." To that child, her sister seemed ten feet tall and full of malice from her prone position. Slight and wiry, angry and threatening, she was overwhelmed by this vision of her sister as her father.

"You ate it?" she barked.

"I bought some bread. Only some! I swear it! That's the rest of the money back to you there. It's plenty for a bit of something."

Eponine closed her hand around the coins and motioned for her sister to stand before stalking down the alley back toward the boulevard. Just before the end where the alley threatened to spit them back out into the crowd, she halted. Azelma stood cautiously behind and waited. Eponine thought for a moment, then turned and grinned at her sister. It was not a grin of forgiveness, rather more conniving than that, but the small girl preferred it to the evil scowl she'd seen just moments earlier.

"The way it looks to me, you owe me some money," Eponine said casually.

Azelma said nothing.

"Since you've no problem stealing from your own blood sister, you ought to be able to pinch one of those uppity bastards easy enough." With that she shoved her sister into the crowd and retreated to the shadows to watch. Azelma, however, scurried back to the alley immediately.

"Can't I just beg it? I'm no good at stealing, 'Ponine."

"Funny, you seemed awful good at it just before," she said. Tears formed in Azelma's eyes. "Oh, come off it! You better learn stealing from strangers, because the next time you steal from me you won't be handing me your change, I'll be fishing it out of your dead little hand. I'm through being the workhorse around here. You pinch a pocketbook or I tell papa you took all the begging money and spent it on cakes for your fat little face. God, if you weren't so bloody useless!"

Fury still swirled in Eponine. This tiny creature that brought her down. This girl who hid while she took scores of beatings. This child who skulked around and dropped off letters while she sold herself body, mind and soul to support these fools she didn't like or love. The resentment, the anger, it burned through her entire body while the smoke poured out of her glaring eyes.

Azelma bowed her head and trudged back toward the bustle. Standing on the fringes of the crowd, she watched cautiously. Everyone seemed to be going too fast. She didn't even know where someone would keep a purse. She was certain she'd be caught. These were no idle Parisians. They moved swiftly, they were hyper-aware of their pockets and packages. Still feeling Eponine's burning gaze on her she threw herself into the crowd and began to walk with them. Struggling to keep up, she anxiously thrust her hand into the coat pocket of a thin, nattily dressed young man and quickly withdrew clutching something. She did not pause to inspect the object, but took off running back toward the alley, dodging the people like raindrops.

When she arrived, breathless, she slumped against the wall and handed the object to Eponine, who set about inspecting it immediately. It was indeed a purse. Brown, made of sturdy but worn fabric. It was not overly fully, but the harvest was adequate for a first try.

Eponine was, in spite of herself, impressed with the little one's beginner's luck. Not one to give credit where it's due, she reminded herself that her useless sister was bound to fail at a second try. Over think it, hesitate, linger. One good grab did not give the girl talent and so Eponine would not praise luck. Anyone could get lucky.

"This is better than nothing," she said and pocketed the coins.

She headed for the boulevard herself, ready to enjoy the warm broth she'd dreamed of all day. Azelma followed. When they reached the street Eponine carelessly tossed aside the purse. "No sense keeping nothing incriminating on us," she said.

Behind her a thin, nattily dressed young man rushed toward the discarded object. "My purse!"


End file.
